


(your) mistress and empire

by meroure



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meroure/pseuds/meroure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this is what Kate’s been waiting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(your) mistress and empire

**Author's Note:**

> All credit goes to [pasiphile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/) for convincing me that this was worth rescuing from my abandoned drafts.

She waits forty-seven seconds before opening the door. For forty-seven seconds she watches, and not once does the woman on the other side look up from her phone.

\--

“I thought these visits were supposed to be inconspicuous,” Kate says instead of hello. She eyes the black town car with tinted windows parked on the other side of the street. 

“On this street? Anything different would garner attention.” Anthea shrugs off her coat into Kate’s waiting hands, and unwinds the scarf from around her neck. “If you were concerned about the neighbors you would have chosen a different address.”

Anthea drops her phone on the side table, next to Irene’s card holder and Kate’s bracelet, and covers it with her scarf. It’s silent in the hall, just the two of them and the muted buzzing of the mobile. Kate waits for instruction. 

“I need to check the Northeast bedroom.” Anthea’s voice is utterly professional, crisp and clear enough to be picked up by the microphone stuck behind the framed floral painting hanging in the entry. Kate isn’t supposed to know about it, but it’s been there since Irene’s supposed death, a constant voyeur in a house that prides itself in discretion. 

“Of course.” The week before it had been Southwest bedroom and before that the adjoining bathroom. 

Kate follows her up the steps, eyes on Anthea’s hips.

\--

It’s just sex. 

It’s never just sex.

Irene’s not here, and it was never sex between her and Kate. They’d been confidants and workers, best friends and past lovers. It hadn’t been sex between them because it didn’t need to be. It wasn’t about sex; it was about centering, gaining strength, curbing the feeling when Kate felt like jumping out of her skin. 

“You’re still thinking,” Anthea breathes, teeth nipping at Kate’s jaw. There is one hand on Kate’s wrist and the other is working its way up the inside of her thigh. 

With Anthea it’s sex. It’s sex and it almost feels like a betrayal to her best friend. Except she thinks Irene would understand, be amused by the clandestine affair, be--

The hand around her wrist tightens and Kate’s head falls backward, knocking against the hallway wall as Anthea bites sharply at her collarbone. “Stop thinking.”

“The bedroom,” she manages, because that’s what Anthea had said.

\--

It’s not about intensifying the feeling, it’s about lulling her into the place where she can let go.

The world tilts sideways as Anthea pushes them into the bedroom, forcing Kate onto the bed and spinning her around. It’s expected and it’s not, and the air is knocked from her lungs as her back hits the mattress, heels lost to the floor. 

She watches Anthea strip; the crisp fabric barely wrinkling as she unzips her skirt and folds it, the smooth creases as she hangs her blouse on the doorknob. She keeps on her bra and panties, dark aubergine lined with a hint of lace, and settles on top of Kate’s thighs.

Kate is still dressed when Anthea kisses her. Her legs are constricted by a pencil skirt, breath constrained by her bra, and Anthea’s fingers locked around her wrist, bruising. 

“Ready?” Anthea asks, always asks, even though Kate always is. 

Kate mews a response, arching her head back on the pillow.

She’s rewarded with a bite to her throat. “Use your words.”

Anthea’s fingers move from her wrist to her neck.

And this is what Kate’s been waiting for. The steady pressure, the pounding heart, the feeling that she’s being wrung dry. It’s white noise. Somewhere above her she’s vaguely aware of Anthea’s “Ten seconds, love,” but it doesn’t register, doesn’t mean anything because she’s both flying and sinking and oh so close to something. 

This is what she misses; what she needs. It’s what her current clients can’t give her. She’ll never give up control to a man, is always ready with a sharp tongue, high heels and poisoned kisses. But it’s different with a woman, she just wants to submit, soak up whatever they hand her.

There’s a sharp pain on her chest, a bite mark, and Kate’s eyes fly open, jerking, gasping. The hands leave her throat. 

“Behave,” Anthea says. 

Kate’s barely listening, a litany of ‘please, please, please,’ falling from her mouth. She can’t spread her legs for Anthea, and the wet heat of Anthea’s mouth through her shirt isn’t enough. “Please,” she begs, hips trying to rise off the bed. 

Anthea squeezes her legs tighter and pins her shoulders down, fingers gripping the bone, nails sharp enough to feel through the fabric. 

They rut against each other. Kate can feel Anthea bearing down, and she can’t stop begging, can only move her mouth. She’s surrounded by Anthea: bracketed by her weight, breathing in the scent of heady perfume. Not being in control is freeing, and she comes, back arching, gasping for breath as Anthea digs her fingers into the flesh and muscle at the juncture between shoulder and neck. 

Kate doesn’t bother rolling them over; she can’t with the state her clothes are in. She brings her hand between them, fingers edging underneath Anthea’s panties. Anthea’s wet and power high and Kate curls one finger, unable to suppress her own shiver as her knuckle presses inside. She adds another finger and Anthea rides her hand like that. She’s gorgeous; muscles flexing and hair coming loose. Tall and proud even as she comes with a high-pitched yip. 

Kate’s muscles feel pleasantly sore when Anthea lifts herself off. Her skirt is utterly ruined; wet, creamy patches dot the fabric. Kate can’t bring herself to care.

Anthea never needs the time to recover. Kate watches as she crosses the room with a light step, an unmoving voyeur as Anthea steps into her skirt and gives her blouse a good shake before sliding it on. The buttons are thin and tiny, but Anthea’s hand is steady and she doesn’t look down as she buttons them. She repins her hair and re-applies her lipstick, the reflection of her gaze in the armoire mirror anchoring Kate to the bed. The scene doesn’t end until Anthea’s ready; it’s not until she blots her lipstick that does Kate feel like she can move from the bed. 

\--

“I’ll be back next week.” Anthea scoops her phone off the side table and winds the scarf around her neck. 

“If you must,” Kate says, although Anthea’s already distracted, small chirps emitting from her phone. Kate holds open the door and watches Anthea duck into the waiting car, profile disappearing behind the tinted windows. 

She stands in the doorway long after the car has gone, skirt sticking to her thighs. There’s a dull ache in her throat and a silent house behind her; ghosts of Irene and the life they had behind closed doors. The CCTV camera watching the entrance swivels to the left, and Kate uses the half-second of privacy to take a breath and swallow down the heavy ache starting to re-build in her chest. She has a client in an hour; and there’s always next week.


End file.
